


Untitled

by Fenjosi



Series: The Wild Elf [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, F/M, Lies, Mystery, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Secrets, Thedas, Thedas (Dragon Age), Thedas Language Project, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 07:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21406147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenjosi/pseuds/Fenjosi
Summary: The Mage-Templar War had wrecked the lives of many. Syrillon never imagined it would touch his as well. The Dalish never stayed anywhere for long, after all.
Relationships: Original Character/Original Character
Series: The Wild Elf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/382216
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chasing Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753232) by [Fenjosi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenjosi/pseuds/Fenjosi). 

> This is one of (hopefully) many prequels to my DA:I fic, Chasing Ghosts. In which, I'll lay out Mithra's life story through various original characters. A girl's gotta have a hobby. ;) 
> 
> I'll be using FenxShiral's glorious Elvhen Language Project for various words and phrases in this tale as well. It's a side-project and work in progress, so I can't say how often it'll be updated. Still trying to finish the Inquisition fic as well.

Fearing for his safety, the small girl begged, "Babae said it's not safe, Isa'ma'lin! We have to stay together!" She tugged desperately at his armor. "Don't go, Syrillon!"

He gently broke her hold on the leather and kneeled to look into her tearful, silver-green eyes. "Listen to me, Ella.. When I come back, they'll be with me.."

As his sister's tiny fists clutched at his leathers again, she buried her eyes in his chest.

For the next hour, her sobbing squeezed at his heart until he couldn't help but join her. As much as he hated seeing her cry, the hunter cradled her until she exhausted herself with grief.

While holding the napping seven-year-old in his arms, their aunt approached. There was no hope on her tired, weathered face as she presented a leather bag of supplies.

After draping the child's thin legs across his bent knee, Syrillon slung the pack over his shoulder and gave his aunt a grateful nod. Placing a kiss upon his sister's flushed brow, he stood and handed her over to the vaguely familiar woman.

"She's in good hands," she assured while patting the child's tiny, limp arm.

A faint smile briefly tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I know, Aunt Harea. Tell her I'm sorry, and that I'll return soon." He turned on his heel the moment she nodded.

\----------------------------

Aching feet throbbed as he prepared to rest for the night. He may have spent as many days on a hunt, but his quick pace over this wretched terrain these past few had outdone them all. As a result, the calloused ball of one foot had split; a worrisome, bleeding tear.

After tending his injury, the young elf settled on a bed of warm furs beside a softly glowing fire. With a sigh, his stormy eyes fixed on the shining moon above. Before he realized it, his mind drifted to the sister he'd left with their aunt's clan.

"I have to know they made it," he whispered to himself.

'They'll be with me..one way or another...' The Dalishman hadn't said the last part to her, but he'd thought it then as he did now. To say it aloud would snap the last bit of hope he had. To steal any that heartbroken child might have left... He'd be a monster.

As if that guilt wasn't enough, events four days past haunted his mind every moment since their occurrence.

Just as he drifted toward those darker memories, the hunter's trance broke upon a distant howl, and a choir answered soon after.

Wolves.. He hoped the winds wouldn't change tonight. He took some comfort knowing he was currently downwind.

The singing beasts brought to mind a disturbing tale he'd heard at Arlathvhen. Various people spoke of an abnormally tall, gangly creature that lived among wolf packs. They said it walked upright, yet looked like a twisted, gnarled version of its four-legged brethren.

When a child asked the Hahren if it was a werewolf, he'd remarked, "Far worse, Da'len. Werewolves are mindless, savage creatures. While no less vicious, this creature is cunning. It vanishes when the wolves move over the land. Because of this, one would not know it's near until its fangs are upon them. It favors the soft, tender ones - so work hard. If your muscles grow tough, perhaps Fenjosi won't seek to make a meal of you."

A smile cracked his worry; the reel of memories shifting to when a disguised hunter lept amidst the enraptured children. A thunderous, primal snarl sent them running for the safety of their nearest parent. The old Hahren really knew how to get them going. 

The continuous howling carried despair on the wind. Stinging tears emerged and he hoped their haunting melody wasn't a dinner bell for the rest. They certainly sounded close to the battleground he'd fled days ago. He hoped at least a few made it to safety. Mythal, please..

\----------------------------------------

Bright sunlight and cheerful birdsong announced the morning's arrival. The young hunter wished he could be half as joyous as the feathered choir above.

Groggy from a troubled sleep, his rough hands rubbed his face as he mumbled, "One more day..perhaps half. Then I'll know." His gritty fingers brushed the disheveled, brown mane to one side of his head, and scratched at the shaved area above his right ear.

With his fatigue shaken off, he lifted himself from his bedding and quickly rolled it up. As he moved to stuff the bound furs in his pack, a small, white package caught his eye. Food had been the last thing on his mind. Luckily, his aunt had slipped some dried meat into his satchel.

"I really should," Syrillon muttered before dropping the thick, grey bundle in his lap and reaching for the carefully wrapped gift.

With a thick, half-eaten piece of jerky in hand, he moved south once more. Before long, a tangle of barbed worries and haunting visions crept upon him yet again.

Aravels had rocked along the forest floor, loaded with all they owned. Horns sang amidst the trees before the cries of war shattered the calm around them. Like angry wasps, they poured from the woodlands on all sides; boxing them in. Behind a mask of rage, the disheartening glimmer of fear had shone in his father's eyes. His dreaded orders still barked in his mind, "Varas, Isha'len! Get your sister to safety!" Reluctantly, Syrillon had obeyed; running northeast with his baby sister clutched in one arm.

"I should have stayed," he lamented, however inexperienced he was with combat on that scale. He hadn't taken the time to count their assailants, but he knew the clan was outnumbered.

They had dodged moving, Silverite-plated bulwarks and pressed against trees to let others pass them by. The panicked girl he cradled nearly gave them away until he muffled her terror with one hand. One of them slowed to look; enraged, self-righteous eyes scanning the woods behind a T-shaped visor.

The brother held his breath and tightened his hold over the girl's mouth. Silently, he prayed the brush at the base of this oak was enough to shroud them.

Another horn blasted through the area; summoning the Templar to the fray. Only after the heavily-adorned beast resumed its journey, Syrillon had dared to draw air once more.

He grew breathless in time, and the ache in his ribs roused him from the waking nightmare. He'd unwittingly broken into a sprint; flying through his verdant surroundings.

The Dalishman slowed to a stop and leaned on a birch to breathe. His head drooped while he panted and his bloodied foot drew his notice. "Fen'edhis.." he growled; annoyed that his carelessness had reopened the split flesh. Trembling with fury, he hammered a clenched fist upon the trunk and barked, "FUCK!"

He took a deep breath and looked around. How far had he traveled since breaking camp? He was certain they passed this area shortly before the battle. If he could find the trail, he'd be able to follow it to the new campsite..if they'd lived to make a new camp, that is.

Another heavy breath filled his lungs before he righted himself and limped forward.

\--------------------------------------

Frigid horror numbed him while the flavors of ash and bile mingled on his tongue. Syrillon found them at last, but now.. Now he wished he had never gone looking.

In a daze, his eyes slowly wandered over the gruesome scene. This couldn't be real. This hadn't happened. It was all just a bad dream. A fucked-up scenario that played in his head while trying to reach them. He wanted to run and deny everything this carnage meant.

Instead, his feet carried him forward.

When ragged, charred flesh squished under his fourth step, his stomach confirmed that it was indeed, real. Hunched and blinking over stinging eyes, the hunter hurled. Mocking smoke from an old, blackened maple wafted in his face. There were no flames..not anymore. Just the heat of faintly glowing, cracked wood and the thick droning of ravenous flies.

Gentle winds lifted the stench of rot and his stomach curled again. He spat out the bitterness as best he could, and looked up. Their father..her mother. If they weren't here, it would mean they'd escaped..maybe. Holding on to this unraveling thread of hope, he waded through the gore.

After what felt like an eternity of torment, he spied a familiar pauldron. The armor was spattered with dried blood, yet gleamed in a smoky ray of sunlight.

"No..'" Syrillon's heart twisted. "No, no, no... No, NO, NO, NO!!!"

\-------------------------------------

In a spinning stupor, the hunter lifted himself from the blood-soaked forest floor. He'd tripped over something, right? Or maybe his knees gave out. All he knew was that he'd met the ground, and his foot throbbed as he kneeled amidst the tragedy. 

"Why does he look so pale?" Cautiously, he reached out. "He's so cold.."

His gaze wandered to the stained armor of his father. When things made sense again, he rolled back to sit.

The young elf stared at his aching, reddened hands through the fog of memory. Syrillon had just finished slamming his fists upon the man who had raised him, screaming a string of curses to ears that would never hear him again.

"Defense will see you through even the hardest battle, Isha'len. Learn how to make the most of your armor, and you will survive," his father had said.

"Halla shit...every word," he croaked through a ragged, dry throat. He burned with thirst and the birds around him were silent.

Had he screamed that loud?

When he flexed his hands, their bones felt as if they'd been fractured. Had he beaten his father's armored, bloodied chest that hard?

Sorrow built within him as he sat among the wasteland of blood and bone. What would he do now?

Green cloth, too clean to belong here, fluttered just within his field of vision. When his eyes slid in its direction, he finally registered her presence.

Clad in dirt-covered Dalish hunter's armor, she stared at him with eyes akin to lilacs. Snowy hair gently swayed on either side of her face and teased the long, vertical scar on her left cheek. 

He almost thought she was a hallucination. She proved him wrong when she asked, "Do you have anything left?"

Syrillon glared through the tears her question summoned and whispered, "Go away."

The stranger sighed and looked at the mess surrounding them, but she didn't move.

Fury churned within him. Couldn't she see he wanted to be left alone? She knew these were his people, yet she stood there as if she had some claim on them.

As loud as he could manage through his raw voice, he repeated, "Go away!"

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

He knew she meant it for this nightmare rather than her refusal to leave, and it hardened the angry pit in his gut. Burning feet forced him up as he dashed toward her, a balled fist at the ready.

When she sidestepped his fumbling attack, he found himself face-deep in blood-soaked earth. He rolled over quickly and scrambled backward, thinking she would retaliate. "Why don't you just..leave me alone?!"

The stranger watched him morosely. After a moment, her wrist twitched; gesturing to the dead. "Do you wish to join them?"

Syrillon gaped up at her. Was that a threat?

"I can make it quick," she promised gently.

Puzzled, he studied her for a moment. Her tired, red-rimmed eyes betrayed something..tortured. He got the feeling this woman understood his suffering. 

She was offering mercy.. His words spilled out in a dejected mumble, "My sister.." The woman tilted her head curiously as he finished, "She's waiting..for the news."

Opening a fraction further, those lilac eyes softened. Her features relaxed into a faint smile as she breezed, "Then you still have something." She sighed and turned on her heel. "Take your time. When you're ready, meet me to the south. There's a pond you can wash in along the way. I've prepared for burial."

She had..dug their graves..? Through his shock, he asked, "How will I find you?"

The stranger turned partially to look at him over one fur-clad shoulder. "If you're any kind of hunter, you'll find me. If not.." She gave him a faint shrug. "Well, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to help you, anyway."

Syrillon managed to choke out, "Wait... What's your name?"

That seemed to give the woman pause, but she blinked and took a breath. "My parents named me 'Mithra'."

Silently, he watched her wander away of her own accord rather than at his command. 


End file.
